He drove the Septaoff The Delair Bridge;laughing hysterically,puking over the bus schedule,smoking a butt down to the stubflicking off the no smoking signs.He chauffeuredthe criminals, handicaps,prostitutes, bike riders,senile, middle aged hags,into the polluted waves,

lining the inside of your purse.Call me, ‘Nothing’,because it isbetter for bothof us this way.

You don't have to tryto remember my name.I don't have to pretendthat you like me.Next time,don't bothertrading steamyexpressions with my boyfriendacross the roomon my birthday,just fuck himon the table.I'll eventry to hold backthe tears tillthe party's over,or they ask me to leave.

“White Chaos”

Winter of '06,couldn't tell the differencebetween the snow and the blow,as it was both in mass quantity.An avalanche of white chaosspewing from the mantel piece.And when we needed fire to warm our frantic boneswe turned to the stovebaked skin and apple piesthat no one ate.We trimmed away the cutfrom the powder and our egos,making sure all we inhaled was cleanand natural.In our secured crew of fiends,there was Lane, the Land Lord,puking monotonous tales he doesn't recalltelling before.His mind wraps around cold case memoriesclings to past glory,keeps buffing his sports trophieswhich reflect the shadows of bags packingthemselves in under his blue eyes.He reached out to mebut I had not the heart to tell himthat I was sinking too.We went in roundslike a confession classfor recovering alcoholicsonly we had just begun.The crisp blanket of whitewas our excuse to stay in for the night,for the day,and on, and on.Spilling religious lore into our laps,threatening our inherited beliefsshaking a fist in the facesof those who spite our habits.While we pushed God further awayunintentionally,like our dinner when we were finished.It was not as if we did not want anymorethere was just no room for it in our lives.The numbing drip took hold of our lungsheld hostage in the moment,and we forgot yesterday,let go of our promises we had made.I told my legs to stop shakingit was my only hope for relaxation,but there was no release,no calm after the stormjust endless racing and craving ravenously for moreuntil the crystals stopped fallingand realization fell in chunks of hailinstead.

“Fuck it”

That sex was as goodas smoking a Cuban cigarafter twenty years ofresignation.You know,

I'm surprisedat how some lovers canwithstand each other.I prefer weeding throughthe contestants like, “Survivor”,finding the worthy one,then skip the thirty days on an island,to hump his brains outon the shore instead,seaweed tangling hair.Here’s an instance,can you see me?All day legs drawn likea wide neck V,on a bench catching morebirds than men.All day,people have trains to catch,dead grandmas to visit,cops to run from.Or do they not noticethat I don’t have panties on?Why else would my legsbe flapping like drypancakes if that wasn't my aim?He comes round the cornerlike he'd been stalking meALL DAYand didn't exactly know howto approach me as a smutor a saint.He sticks it right in,on the park bench,like a cheese piesucking up the sauce,like a smoothiewithout all the chunks,like a rail of cocaineto the brain,no snot in the way.It was a clean routeand it took all dayto make that man cum.I doubt even nowif I can tell you his name,but I can tell youthe inches,the centimeters ofangles,the thrust velocity,and what I named it.Bout timeI had that cigar now.I asked for itso many lines ago.